Dog Training
by sheepythewise
Summary: A young dog owner tries his best to rear his poor abused dog as he simply wants it to accept him and his love. Warnings for blood, abuse, and vague mentions of n/c.


Author's note: heyyy i wrote this one about a week after i wrote "taxes," and this one is a lot more serious. i didn't need to do a lot of editing, and it's a bit shorter, but i really like this one, and hopefully you do, too!

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"Ugh, this fuckin' bites."

He sighed in his chair, tossed his head back, and crossed his legs. Lines of stress were forming on his brow, his hands were growing impatient, and his lips weren't meeting in his scowl. They never met. When he looked over at his dog, they didn't meet. They only grew wider. Wide enough so as to bare his teeth more, like a real canine. But his brows weren't furrowing. They were raised.

"I have t' look at this stupid fuckin' contract about this guy I had killed. Apparently I'm in big shit." Then the corners of his mouth reversed and he smiled, and not only that—he laughed. Cackled. Like a hyena. Like a madman. Like repercussions were hilarious, nonexistent. This was just some big joke. Owing money, for someone's death? Like that idiot mattered. He didn't have valuable blood. He didn't have connections. He was just some punk that the young prince offed, either because he pissed him off, he wasn't doing well enough, or just because he felt like it. Then the cackle stopped, and his lips still weren't closed. His teeth were still bared. Each and every big, feral tooth was showcased by the open display of his fat lips, and, looking at his dog, it was as if he managed to grin wider. "But hey, I deserve a break, right? I've been workin' hard for, what, ten minutes? Why don'tcha go get me a drink."

He held his dog's chin, and stroked it with his thumb as he gave the command. Stroked the indent where its bottom lip ended. He stroked its jaw, the area around its mouth, and then its lips directly. His dog let out a sort of muffled whimper. A small, pathetic noise, like it was afraid of him. It was. It was deathly afraid. Especially since the other had been mocking it. Like the situation wasn't gruesome, macabre. This was just some big joke. His dog's eyes widened, and they became glossy and wet with tears that threatened to spill, and its breathing grew ragged as it forced back the sobs. Sobs it wouldn't be able to let out, anyway.

He laughed again, and took the hand to comb his fat fingers through his dog's long, greasy coat. Caressing it, stroking it, trying to calm it down with accompanied coos. "Shhh, calm down, man, I'm not gonna snap at you like the other day. You just—it was just bad for the both of us, okay? You can forgive yer owner, can't ya?" Another laugh, and then his dog started crying. His dog was shaking terribly, its shoulders hunched and its head lowered. No noise was coming from it, and the fear and dread it was experiencing was like a giant black mass that was swallowing and devouring its whole being. He didn't know, but his dog was overwhelmed with pure terror. He didn't see, but the gaze in his dog's eyes was empty, hollow, withdrawn, and the only recognizable emotion was chaos. He didn't hear, but his dog's teeth were clattering, grinding against each other, a subconscious reaction to focus on something, anything, other than the awesome might and subjugation of its owner.

He didn't care, but his dog was bordering on the edge of sanity. His dog was painfully torn between resisting and giving in. His dog was afraid of giving into its fear and letting it consume it, and it was afraid of giving in to its owners commands, wishes, and desires. It often thought its master wouldn't hurt him if it were just good. But then it worried that its master's sadism would worsen—or perhaps show its true intensity. Because his dog has given in, why should he lighten up on it? Why should he be nice, when it's surrendered? These were fears his dog had, but it was so close to giving up. It had been so long, so hard, and he was tired.

"Hey, yanno what? I haven't watered you yet today. Go get me that drink, and I'll let you have some of it. And if yer good for the rest of the day—"

His hand came back to his cheek, stroking it once more with his thumb. He was tender. He was scary. His dog just shook even harder, and it blinked repeatedly and opened and squinted its eyes over and over again, convulsing, unable to cope with the panic and loathing it felt for its owner. It was having a fit, and it couldn't even express it. Only with its eyes, which its master didn't care for.

He laughed. Cackled, like a lunatic. His dog hadn't had anything to drink in two days, and nothing to eat in just as many. He knew why it was shaking, why it was crying, why it was so upset, but he didn't care. In his eyes, his dog deserved it. His dog told him it hated him. It was entirely within his place to punish it, by refusing to feed it, give it water, and keep it in its cage when he was gone at school, gone seeing his friends, talking to his father and being lectured about the responsibilities of owning a pet. Responsibilities that the young master was convinced he fulfilled wholeheartedly and appropriately.

His father told him next time his dog acted up, he should cut off a limb. An arm, a leg, anything. That would teach it a lesson. His father said it might be too much, but he could even just cut off its fingers again. He often told his father how his dog never gave him the affection he deserved. How he did so much for his dog and did so much to take care of it and make it happy. How he loved it every night, made it feel so good. His dog wasn't thankful for anything he did for it, but he told his father how he felt his dog was close to accepting him and accepting his new home. His dog was just shy, reluctant, and that was fine! Reading books on how to raise an abused dog gave him plenty of insight, and he knew the best way to have it adjust to normal, healthy living was to just keep pushing it into it. Don't overwhelm it, but let it know there was nothing to fear, and eventually, it would come around. He had faith in this.

His dog was too terrified to move. It couldn't. It was completely consumed by its tremors, by its cries, and it barely even remembered the initial command that its owner had. Even if it listened, obeyed, even if it gave its owner a drink and received compensation, being allowed to drink, itself, it was too scared. It was in shock. It was yanked up by its fur, however, and no noise at all was made. It still made no attempt to move, no attempt to leave the room to go get its master a drink, and when he realized that, he let out a sigh and stood up himself.

"Yer makin' this pretty fuckin' hard on me, Kaiji." He reached down, to the second drawer of his desk, and threatened to open it.

His dog's eyes widened even further, and without even thinking, its feet darted away, carrying it outside of the room for a few moments. He cackled, again, and sat himself back at his desk. He didn't feel the need to tell his dog what to get, because by then, it should have known what his favorite drink was. His dog returned as quickly as possible, having been out of the room for under three minutes, and dropping on its knees, it gave the other his drink. The drink had been cold in its hand, nice and refreshing, condensation collecting on the outside of the cup that dried his dog's mouth and made it yearn for hydration even more. Its eyes were concentrated on the liquid, and its hands were trembling.

That's when it realized. That was the first time it hadn't protested. It took a while to simply register, but it didn't protest to the command. It followed through, without a fight, without kicking or screaming, and without the drawer needing opened. The knife didn't need to be brought out, grazed along its skin, reopening old wounds and forming new ones. Its owner didn't have the knife out, and upon having followed the command with only slight urging, it was being rewarded.

"Good boy, Kaiji," its owner said, softly. Delicately. "Yer a real good boy." His dog's tears began drying, and it had stopped shaking so terribly. Its owner had meant that. Its owner wasn't mocking him, its owner had genuinely meant the praise. His dog had rarely received earnest pets, and it made him so happy to see it lower its head to receive the beginning of its reward.

A different drawer was opened, and what was pulled out seemed like one of those things that ripped out staples, only it was evident it was for more medical uses. When the hand first reached towards it, its heart stopped, and it grew terrified. Absolutely trapped and overpowered by the terror that the worst possible scenario had been the true outcome. Even giving in without a fight, he was going to hurt it. The knife was going to come out, and it was going to lose its fingers again. When it saw that interesting tool instead of a blade, that strange sort of sharp extraction tool instead, its heart rate steadied itself, with a few interruptions here and there. When it was placed to its lips, it closed its eyes and braced itself. It began to breathe hard and deep, as it knew there would be horribly vigorous trauma and agony accompanying the tool performing its task, and its master laughed when he saw the shaking.

"Come on, boy, relax. It'll only feel like a pinch, I swear!" He cackled. And upon cackling, the first stitch was ripped out. His laughter escalated, drowning out the muffled screams, and then the second was removed. Louder, more intense jolly, covering up louder, more intense anguish, and the next stitch and the next stitch. By the end of it, the dog's lips were pouring out blood, the sheer pain unimaginable, impossible to acknowledge, overloading its mind and its senses and racking it with quakes and wide eyes that resembled a lifeless doll. There was an insanely red-hot intensity in its mouth, throbbing and burning its gums and teeth and cheeks, and even though its lips were moving with its howls, with its sobs, it couldn't feel them. The pain was just too extreme, and its eyes were then shut and its hands were gripping its master's sleeve. Its lips were wibbling, quivering, and eight black, disgusting holes dotted them and lined up vertically and horizontally. Its master liked to brag about being talented at sewing.

He just sat there while the other was crying, wailing like a banshee. Quiet, a complete reversal of how he was just moments prior, with blood staining his hands and the cuffs of his sleeves and the marble of his floor. Drinking his beverage, turning his lips an even stronger red due to the flavor of cherry. They were matching, in a way, and that small realization made the other let out a chuckle. Nothing big, nothing extreme like before. When he grew bored with sitting there in silence while the other relished in pure relief, he grinned, and took the drink from his mouth. He placed the straw of it at the other's, staying true to his word.

"Here, boy," he said, in a quiet, condescending tone. It escalated in volume thereafter. "I ain't a liar, you're thirsty, right? Li'l doggy wants something to drink? Hope this ain't too cold for you, hahaha!"

His dog said nothing. When the straw was within its reach, it tilted its head forward and took its ruined lips and placed them on the utensil. They hurt, terribly, and pursing them and closing them like that had caused more blood to spill out, and more whimpers to sound. Its eyes were closed, but tears were pouring. Tears of pain. Tears of torment. Tears of happiness. It was so happy that its mouth was open, that it could speak, that it could scream, that it could swallow. Its master's hand was stroking its fur, petting it again, scratching it behind its ear while it took its fill. The cold liquid was a horrible contrast from the blazing heat the opened wounds had caused, but it didn't matter. His dog didn't care. His dog was happy that it had something to satisfy the drought, to relinquish its dehydration, and the feeling of the nectar felt like the purest form of ecstasy imaginable in the conscious realm.

When it had finished, more than half of the cup was empty. He didn't care. His dog was happy, that was all that mattered. "Did you learn your lesson?," he asked, like a mother speaking to her son who had snuck out an extra cookie for dessert.

His dog was defeated, and he could tell. His dog had given up. It had given up fighting, protesting, trying to remain its true self. There was no point in it, anymore. He could tell this, because he was looking now. Looking at its eyes, seeing that lifeless expression. Hearing its breathing become practically nonexistent. Seeing its body go limp, losing the tenseness it normally had. His dog wasn't scowling. Wasn't baring its teeth, or clenching its fists. It sat there, defenseless, like a good boy. It nodded, and said, "Yes, sir."

The happiness he felt was beyond belief, and what he considered to be the appropriate and deserved payoff of dealing with the other's shitty attitude for so long. His dog finally accepted him as its owner, and even if it was still afraid of him, it knew, now, that he loved it. That he cared about it, that he wanted it safe. He set the glass on the desk, right next to his tax returns, and spread his legs and patted his lap. "Come up here, boy." He spoke in a soft voice, and his smile didn't seem as jarring and absurd.

His dog didn't protest. It climbed right into his lap, wrapped its arms around him, and pressed wet, shaking, bloody kisses to his cheek and neck. He pet its back, held its hip, and with one hand, reached down to pet its tail, and his dog whined in his ear.

Then Kazuya laughed. Cackled. Like a maniac, like a hyena. Like this was just some big joke. And his dog didn't protest.


End file.
